ogue, minutes for months, a
turn of a head or an intercepted glance for a chronicle of crime or
adulterous intrigue. That liberty, therefore, of standing above the
story and taking a broad view of many things, of transcending the
limits of the immediate scene--nothing of this is sacrificed by the
author's steady advance in the direction of drama. The man's mind has
become visible, phenomenal, dramatic; but in acting its part it still
lends us eyes, is still an opportunity of extended vision.

It thus becomes clear why the prudent novelist tends to prefer an
indirect to a direct method. The simple story-teller begins by
addressing himself openly to the reader, and then exchanges this
method for another and another, and with each modification he reaches
the reader from a further remove. The more circuitous procedure on the
part of the author produces a straighter effect for the reader; that
is why, other things being equal, the more dramatic way is better than
the less. It is indirect, as a method; but it places the thing itself
in view, instead of recalling and reflecting and picturing it. For any
story, no doubt, there is an ideal point upon this line of progress
towards drama, where the author finds the right method of telling the
story. The point is indicated by the subject of the story itself, by
the particular matter that is to be brought out and made plain; and
the author, while he regards the subject and nothing else, is guided
to the best manner of treatment by a twofold consideration. In the
first place he wishes the story so far as possible to speak for
itself, the people and the action to appear independently rather than
to be described and explained. To this end the method is raised to the
highest dramatic power that the subject allows, until at last,
perhaps, it is found that nothing need be explained at all; there need
be no revelation of anybody's thought, no going behind any of the
appearances on the surface of the action; even the necessary
description, as we shall see later on, may be so treated that this too
gains the value of drama. Such is the first care of the prudent
novelist, and I have dwelt upon it in detail. But it is accompanied
and checked by another, not less important.

This is his care for economy; the method is to be pushed as far as the
subject can profit by it, but no further. It may happen (for instance
in David Copperfield) that the story _needs_ no high dramatic value,
and that it